


Starter's Privilege

by downjune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Consent Issues, Fingerfucking, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 07:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/pseuds/downjune
Summary: “Hey,” Matty says, looking at him like it’s all he should need to say.And, fuck his life, it is. Marc-Andre can read every one of his lines and angles, and they are telling him he shouldn’t bother showering yet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, more fic I shouldn't be writing right now, but I posted a sex trope meme on tumblr, so I asked for it! (And enjoyed every second of it.) 
> 
> This takes place immediately after Sunday's game vs the Flyers, when Matt had a not-great night, but didn't get too down on himself in front of the press. He's got MAF for that. See end note for some emotional themes as well as the prompt. Also, loosely inspired by my fav of snickfic's: [Circus.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6876484)

At the sight of a familiar pair of Chucks, Marc-Andre looks up from stripping off his socks—way up—to see Matty leaning against the side of his stall, dressed in his civilian uniform. If he wears anything other than those black sweatpants with the cuffs and that pullover outside hockey, Marc-Andre has yet to see it.

His hair wet and flopped to the side, his skin still flushed from the showers, Matty looks ready to take off for the night, though Marc-Andre’s only just finished his post-game workout. The 6-2 drubbing from the Flyers feels familiar in a way Marc-Andre despises, even if it was Matty in net.

“Hey,” Matty says, looking at him like it’s all he should need to say. 

And, fuck his life, it is. Marc-Andre can read every one of his lines and angles, and they are telling him he shouldn’t bother showering yet. 

Levering off his knees, he stands, and Matty leans back a step. He waits for Marc-Andre to go first, like always, and follows at his own pace, a scarecrow shadow at Marc-Andre’s back. It’s a good thing Marc-Andre doesn’t spook easy because Matty looms like no one else on the team.

When they’re shut in a room, Marc-Andre turns to face him, opens his mouth to ask what Matty needs, and shuts it when Matty speaks first. 

“I want to make you feel good,” he says, gaze low and to the side. “Can I do that? Please?”

Flower blinks.

“I’m fucking up. I need—if I can just—” He clamps his mouth shut and inhales through his nose. _If I can do this part right,_ he means.

“Whatever you want,” Marc-Andre answers. Starter’s privilege dictates.

Matty frowns, his bushy blond eyebrows drawn together and his hair falling forward. He looks like he has something to say about that, but decides instead to drop to his knees. 

It’s a process. Marc-Andre can feel his own expression of surprise as Matty folds himself down like some strange breed of heron. Awkward here out of his element. Kid though he may be, the concrete floor will kill his knees. He reaches for Marc-Andre and tugs him in by the backs of his legs, sits back on his heels, and presses his forehead to Marc-Andre’s thighs. A position of penitence. 

He grips the backs of Marc-Andre’s legs and kneads the muscle with bony, unforgiving fingers. A laugh jolts from Marc-Andre’s stomach, and he gasps, grabbing at Matty’s shoulders.

“Fuck, that tickles, stop!”

“Sorry—sorry.” But he doesn’t let him recover, kneeling up and tracing his fingers along Marc-Andre’s hamstrings up to his ass. Admittedly, he doesn’t have much of one, but with Sidney Crosby on your team, expectations get skewed, and anyway, Matty has essentially none. Just where his legs meet his back. Still, Matty grabs hold and presses his face to Marc-Andre’s dick, soft in his sweats. He takes a deep, shuddery breath and rubs his big nose along the shape of it. 

And the sight of that—Matty’s ridiculous hair, his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth open just a little—sends pleasure curling into Marc-Andre’s gut, tightening his balls and filling his dick. Matty is anything but humble. Except he’s not cocky, either, which puts him in a category even more frustrating and elusive. And yet here, with his knees on the concrete, he’s asking Marc-Andre for something he’s never had to offer before. Not like this.

Starter’s privilege puts Marc-Andre on his knees, bends him over a table, or lays him out on his back. He does it willingly. Jeff taught him how to be gracious. Matty wants more from him than that. 

With those long fingers, he peels down Marc-Andre’s sweats to nose right to the base of his cock. Marc-Andre’s a little behind in his grooming, so he’s not exactly neat and tidy down there, but Matty doesn’t seem to mind. He tastes everywhere and presses Marc-Andre open with his fingers. 

Legs a little shaky from the bike, Marc-Andre squeezes his shoulder. “I need to sit, Matty.”

He nods, and with all the ease of youth, rises to his feet. “Here,” he says, voice rough. They back up to an exam table, and Marc-Andre sits his bare ass on it, bracing on his hands when Matty strips him completely from the waist down. When Marc-Andre goes to lean back on his elbows, Matty shakes his head and twitches his chin up. “No, stay here.”

Which is a little awkward at the edge of a table with legs as long as Marc-Andre’s. But when Matty’s rooted around in a drawer and come back with what he was after, Marc-Andre butterflies his knees out and bares himself for Matty’s fingers.

The first invasion is the same as any other. Matty fucks like he knows exactly what he is and isn’t about. He pushes in without preamble or finesse, and Marc-Andre is ready for that, but seated like this with Matty’s other hand on his side, he can’t just lie back and think of Pittsburgh. There’s nowhere to look but Matty, who’s lost any shyness he might’ve had asking for this earlier and watches Marc-Andre now with characteristic focus. 

Tracks every muscle twitch and shiver like this is some exercise Mike assigned him to keep from losing pucks. 

When Marc-Andre feels good and ready, he tries to turn over—tries to escape the intensity of Matty’s eyes—but he tightens his grip on Marc-Andre’s side and digs his fingers in deeper. 

“Let me do it like this.”

“Don’t you want to get off?” Marc-Andre asks.

Matty shakes his head, mouth pinched. “I want to do this.”

He devotes himself entirely to knocking Marc-Andre’s lights out with his fingers alone. They were made for it. He plays Marc-Andre like a fucking fiddle. Like he’s got Marc-Andre’s combination memorized. Like Sid practicing penalty shots until he knows just the right moves to get by him every time. 

Sid doesn’t actually have those moves, but Matty is _dialed in_. He crooks his fingers and reaches into Marc-Andre, nudges and presses and strokes him until he can’t tell whether he really has to piss or come or cry. His legs shake hanging open like this with no support. His arms shake holding him up. And his voice shakes every time Matty drags his fingers out almost to his rim. He is a fucking mess.

“You’re killing me, Matty,” he gasps. “I need to lay down.” 

But Matty shakes his head, his face flushed a hectic red. “Put your arm around me,” he says, reaching for the one closest to his free hand. 

Marc-Andre gets it around his shoulders and feels Matty’s arm flex across his back, hauling him closer, right to the edge of the table. It’s impossibly more intimate now, holding himself up and being held, Matty’s fingers precision instruments inside him. Marc-Andre gives in and hooks one heel around Matty’s back even though there’s nothing there to grab onto. 

At that, Matty makes his first involuntary sound of the evening, a low grunt he tries to keep behind his lips. He looks down between their bodies and back up, not tracking quite as well. 

Which is slightly reassuring because Marc-Andre is about to lose his mind. Sweat pours off him, and his whole body thrums with every push of those fingers. Another few breaths and he tips his head back, just trying for more air. The slight change of angle gives Matty a little more room to work, and the next press of his fingers jolts Marc-Andre hard. Matty must feel it, because he does it again. Marc-Andre makes a panicked animal sound, and he does it again. He does it again, and Marc-Andre loses track of his moving parts. He is nothing but a collection of firing nerves.

He might cry out. He might just cry. All he knows is Matty whites him out with an orgasm that feels like some kind of reset, and when he blinks sticky lashes, it’s to find himself reassembled, his face pressed into Matty’s throat, Matty’s arm still tight around him. His fingers slip free, and Marc-Andre finally lets his legs drop with a groan that feels almost as good as the sex. Managing a look at Matty, he finds him with wet eyes and something excruciating and defenseless in his expression.

Starter’s privilege dictates, but it doesn’t demand anything in return. Marc-Andre doesn’t owe anything. 

Except Matty has always looked to him for more than that. Marc-Andre is certain they wouldn’t work as well if Matty didn’t.

But when Marc-Andre can’t string together the words he needs, Matty ducks his head and bends down for Marc-Andre’s sweats. His shirt is a wreck, so he tugs it off as carefully as he can manage without getting spunk on himself and balls it up, intending it for the bottom of his duffle bag. 

He takes his pants from Matty with a nod of thanks and shoves both legs into them at once, hopping off the table to pull them the rest of the way up. Except as soon as his weight shifts, his hips protest and his knees almost buckle. Matty grabs him and keeps him from dumping himself on the floor.

“Whoa.”

“I’m fine,” Marc-Andre almost snaps. If he hadn’t just been turned inside out, he could manage more attitude. If he hadn’t just been turned inside out, his legs wouldn’t be soup, and he wouldn’t need attitude at all.

It’s an ongoing balancing act.

When he’s reasonably sure he can walk back to the locker room without limping or hobbling like the old man he is, he takes a deep breath and looks to Matty again. He hasn’t moved. Marc-Andre isn’t done.

Even though he really is. His balls and his hips ache with evidence of getting well and truly laid. His heart feels sluggish in his chest, and he’s getting cold without a shirt, his sweat drying to leave him with the kind of chill that comes from too much exertion and not enough calories or sleep. 

He gathers Matty in as much for warmth as because it’s all he can do with his tongue so slow. He tips Matty’s head down against his shoulder, and Matty’s arms slip loosely around his waist. He breathes out against Marc-Andre’s collarbone. 

“You did that so good I can’t even talk,” Marc-Andre says with a smile.

Matty’s arms tighten, and he huffs out another breath. 

“Ready to go home?”

Matty hesitates, going still for just long enough. 

“Want to come home with me?” 

Vero doesn’t quite know what to make of Matt Murray, thief of their livelihood here in Pittsburgh, but she’s always been a curious girl, and the dogs like him, so she trusts their taste, even when she doubts Marc-Andre’s. She’ll at least sit up and eat take out with them before bed tonight.

“Yeah,” Matty finally says. “That’d be cool.”

When Marc-Andre draws back, Matty sneaks a kiss—more a brush of bristle across his mouth than anything. But Marc-Andre freezes at the newness of it. He touches his lips and looks up at Matty to find him once again directing his gaze somewhere else, not willing to admit or acknowledge that he’s done something he maybe shouldn’t have. 

Starter’s privilege might cover it, but they’ve ventured way out of that territory by now, and Matty knows it. Marc-Andre waits him out. He’s got a four-year-old at home—he’s learning how to do this. 

Finally, Matty darts a look at him, and when he finds Marc-Andre watching him, his gaze sticks. 

“I’m not sorry,” he says. 

“Then do it like you’re not trying to get away with it.”

Matty swallows, his eyes very blue under the harsh lights of the exam room. He puts his hand on the side of Marc-Andre’s neck, kisses like he hasn’t had much practice, and hasn’t had to worry about that until right now. But when Marc-Andre angles his nose out of the way and opens up just a little, Matty slips him some tongue. He’s a natural.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request for (6) "meticulously doing something entirely for the other’s benefit without expectation or need of reciprocation."
> 
> Which, Matt Murray might see it that way, but this is largely a fic about the emotional labor MAF performs as the veteran goaltender who is also the backup. 
> 
> This is also a fic about how Matt Murray might be fantastic at sex, because he's been starting for a WHILE, but he's never needed to be good at kissing. Because that notion pleases me.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr!](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/)


End file.
